


Blue Christmas

by Anonymississippi



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 21:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13132629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymississippi/pseuds/Anonymississippi
Summary: Carter has chosen to spend Christmas with his father this year, and Cat is feeling down about it. That is, until her number-one source for all things alien floats out of the sky, and offers her a metaphorical shoulder to cry on.Secret Santa prompt!





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kutekoolkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutekoolkat/gifts).



> Sorry for the haste and lack of development on this one--it was a pinch-hit, but I really liked throwing these two characters together. My very first Supergirl fic I ever uploaded featured Cat and Astra, so it was fun revisiting this dynamic, however briefly. 
> 
> Merry Christmas, KuteKoolKat! 
> 
> Prompt: person a is emotional about something and it ends up with a heart to heart with person b (preferably pre relationship)

Cat tapped the bottom of her glass against the railing before her, leaning heavily on its metal frame. Looking out over the dark horizon, the waves crashing beneath her, she felt all the fourth-quarter pressures of another year melt off her shoulders and trickle into the crags of the rocks beneath balcony. All that stress, all that worry, all those final decisions, considered, made, and implemented, with twelve issues down and a rise in daily sales for the _Tribune_.

Aliens had made a rather showy return in the past year, culminating in some great battle that Supergirl didn’t dare share. Yet covering Supergirl was beginning to lose its appeal (not that her heroics were lackluster by any means). Only, Cat yearned for challenges, yearned for _more_. One alien in public (and another in private, one who cropped up at the strangest times) didn’t sate her appetite for story, for truth, for productivity. Getting the _Tribune_ back to sustainability during the hayday of digital had kept her preoccupied for the past several months, but now, she needed something bigger. One huge story to catapult her back into satisfaction.

Of course, she’d never get a word out of Supergirl.

But, that didn’t mean she didn’t have… other sources of information, contrary as they might be.

She took another sip of scotch before resting her arms once again on the railing. Her elbows hurt with the awkward positioning, or perhaps it was just her elbows in general, bony and creaky, like so many of her other limbs and joints. Middle age was flying past her, faster than that golden-haired girl with a cape the color blood.

Thankfully, tonight wasn’t one of those anxious evenings she spent up at the office, finalizing details on a Supergirl or Pro-Alien piece before release. She wasn’t hunched over a contact sheet reviewing photos before sending them to print for the magazine, nor was she in that curious mood that occurred every once in a blue moon, where she set aside her laptop and retrieved her old typewriter, the one her father had given her on her ninth birthday after she’d scrawled one too many fairy stories on the backs of his clients’ quarterly statements. It was the last gift he’d given her before he died, and she kept it well-oiled and functioning to this day.

Tonight was simply another year passed. Another Christmas, to be exact, but it hardly felt like a holiday on the beaches of California, with the smell of salt on the wind and the chill in the air more pleasant than frigid, the mercury on the thermometer reaching a mere fifty-eight degrees. She pulled her robe closer and felt goosebumps creep up her bare legs, but she couldn’t force herself to turn in for the night.

Christmas Eve on the beach usually entailed a bonfire and notes from Carter’s pen pal in Austria, giggles and powdered sugar explosions from baking Santa cookies. They had their special Christmas coin (with Rudolph’s red nose and antlers as heads and his hindquarters and jingle-bell strapped fetlocks as tails) to flip for movies—Cat always chose _White Christmas,_ or _Christmas in Connecticut_ with Stanwyck, whose acting prowess did more for the film than the simpering storyline itself; though the dated narrative did open avenues for her to speak with Carter about how women used to remain in the home, which is the exact opposite of what he’s always known.

That’s probably why Carter usually chose _Home Alone_ or _Elf_. He was in no mood for a lecture in conjunction with Christmas, not when he’d done nothing to warrant one.

But tonight, no Carter. No Christmas movies, because she just didn’t feel up to it. Alcohol, yes, but she did that more evenings than she cared to admit, even when Carter with her and tucked in for the night. Though she tried to quell the tears, her iron will had turned somewhat molten in the starlight. It was a blow to her formidable ego that Carter had decided (as she and her ex had agreed they would allow once Cater turned ten) to spend this holiday with his father. She’d had him for Thanksgiving and would likely have him again for Christmas next year, but tonight felt… off without him.

She’d had her pick of parties in National City and beyond up until the 23rd, but Christmas Eve was for families. She’d even given fleeting consideration to attend some sort of Christmas Eve service, more attracted to the idea of novelty than to the spiritualism of it all. It seemed so outrageous that a savior of any sort would drop out of the sky and hide amongst men, and yet, there seemed to be one sky-dropping savior for each coast nowadays.

The night had taken a turn for the contemplative, and Cat wasn’t particularly happy about that. She was blue, and angry with herself for being so blue, that she didn’t even notice the woman hovering inches from her balcony until she was nearly ten feet from her.

“You are distracted this evening, my Queen.”

“God, _Astra_ ,” Cat swore and flinched, gripping the railing as hard as she could, pulling the glass of scotch up to her lips out of habit. “You know how I feel about you hovering like a child’s drone.”

“The fact that your youth have operational clearance for drones—”

“They’re _toys_ , we’ve been through this—”

“—does not speak highly of your planet’s aeronautic and airspace regulations,” Astra finished in her stilted tone, haughty and just formal enough to draw the ear to the phrasing. Cat sipped at her drink as Astra regarded her in the open air. “You have been crying,” she observed, floating closer, the dimples of her brow furrowed deeply as the channels created by the tidal pools below. “Are you sad tonight, Catherine?”

“I miss my son,” Cat replied truthfully, to her utter astonishment. She glanced at her glass, noting that it was only her first scotch of the evening. Her candor, in this case, could not be blamed on the alcohol.

“Ah,” Astra nodded, inclining her head. “The little Prince. He is not with you?”

“He’s with his father.”

“I understand it is your yearly—I have forgotten the name. The solstice was three days previous; it is a winter celebration, is it not?”

“Sure,” Cat said, not feeling up to her rehearsed quips, not feeling up to yet another interview with the only alien she could seem to get a hold of. Not necessarily because Cat came calling for her; more so because Astra found her amusing, somewhat powerful, and, above all, useful. Hence the familiarity with her regal nickname. If any of her board members had tossed that nickname around, even jokingly, Cat would have requisitioned enough side projects to drown them in spreadsheets and market reports for three months. But somehow, the very alien woman, appealing in the moonlight, could get away with it.

Cat let Astra get away with a lot of things.

Knowledge of Carter. Interaction, even, with Carter. Insider information pertaining to stories yet to be run. Access to filing cabinets that only Cat had the key to, fearful of putting information into hackable iClouds and Dropboxes and various other shared drives, knowing the only full-proof firewall was the flame-retardant coating she had lining her most precious of safes, stored in the bowels of CatCo and kept under lock and key that only Cat had access to. And Kara, too, if she followed the emergency protocol should Cat’s untimely death occur at any point.

But with her new alien—bestie? bodyguard?—an untimely death due to catastrophe of any sort seemed unlikely. Astra was much too intrigued by her to simply let her perish in some unoriginal, _human_ way.

“I see you are already indulging,” Astra said, moving closer, close enough to touch, as if she were standing perfectly naturally, twenty feet above the rocks and the surf, some sort of siren come to call at Cat’s beach house. “I brought Valerian wine, to see if your human tastes were at all affected by our offerings. I was hoping to celebrate your human holiday.”

“With me?”

“With wine,” Astra remarked.

“Are you attempting to get me drunk?”

“Are you not already inebriated?”

“I’m sure I was shot-gunning my first beer in college when you were toddling about in alien Pampers,” Cat quipped, finding her fire suddenly.

Astra tilted her head, amused. “Your remarks are incomprehensible, but most certainly entertaining, Catherine.”

She swooped above the railing and landed lightly, her posture impeccable, enough for Cat to pinpoint her as military during their very first interaction together.

Astra always came at night. Cat hardly ever sent her away, since she had no quarrel with her beyond the incidental destruction of her first major fight with Supergirl. That had been a year ago, and Cat had tried and tried to pull the story from Astra and Supergirl both, but all efforts had, as of yet, been unsuccessful.

“I might be small, but I’m no lightweight,” Cat clarified.

The light in Astra’s eyes seemed to shine with challenge.

“You are petite, most certainly,” Astra acquiesced. “But you do not carry yourself as such,” she amended.

“Thank you,” Cat said quietly, unsure if she meant it, unsure if she was simply ready for Astra to float away on the wind, as was her custom after their… chats. The visits had been ongoing for several months now; the alien woman originally only appeared at her offices, late at night, snooping for information about her broadcasting networks. Soon enough, something of a… reciprocal relationship had formed; Cat would almost call their interactions pleasant, primarily because Astra was willing to give her something no one else could.

Cat was able to ask questions about Kryptonians, and Krypton, details that no one on Earth (at least, no one in the public sphere) had knowledge of. In return, Cat identified certain companies, universities, people in higher positions of power, that Astra might want to contact and petition for her crusade. Cat learned early on that her new alien pal was about as dangerous as an environmental extremist, which was, in fact, quite dangerous. But Astra seemed… cowed, perhaps, reluctant to cause such a ruckus with a bomb or a protest that attention would be drawn to her. If anything, she was persistent, a little skittish, and then, somewhat gleeful about releasing information to Cat about her home planet. She had indicated on numerous occasions that some black-ops organization existed, one that she, apparently, was not on good terms with. Giving Cat information about aliens— _lots_ of aliens—that would then be printed after some quick verifications, seemed downright entertaining for her.

Of course, it could have all ended very differently the first night Cat saw Astra on the 36th floor of CatCo. Cat caught her at her desk, rifling through papers, clicking and tapping away at the desktop with access to terabytes upon petabytes of CatCo information; and, after one harrowing moment with Astra’s hand wrapped round her throat, Cat grunted out an accusation, an answer, a confession, which was apparently what Astra needed to hear. She had released her, then had spoken briefly of her search for information. Cat, ever the journalist, questioned her until dawn the next day, learning more about aliens and planets and technologies in five hours with Astra than she had learned in decades working in journalism.

Astra did not like many humans. She was superior and off-putting, awkward due to her formality; and she was devastatingly blunt, which Cat appreciated. Cat knew that this friendship was not based on camaraderie, but on mutual benefits. But still, Astra, in all her formal stand-offish-ness, had somehow army-crawled beneath the barbed-wires of Cat’s defenses, slinking in to Cat’s good graces with all the precision her years in the military afforded her.

And she stood before her tonight, on Christmas, perhaps not the company that Cat wanted, or even expected, but it’s what she’s gotten, nonetheless.

Her mouth was not connecting with her brain, it seemed, because instead of bidding Astra good night, she tried, “So is this your attempt at merriment?”

“I wouldn’t force you to enjoy yourself. Or play into some false cheer, especially if you are distraught over Carter.”

“Distraught is rather extreme,” Cat said.

“Your tears are more truthful than your words, Catherine,” Astra returned, floating over the railing to stand upon the balcony with her. “He is a kind boy, clever, like his mother. It is no wonder you miss your family at this time. I have seen enough in your papers to know that he should be here, with you.”

“You’re not helping,” Cat snipped.

“As general, I never gave condolences to families of those lost in battle. I was… not very good at it. I am too sensitive myself, to deliver news of such a tragedy.”

“You? Sensitive?”

Astra leaned against the balcony, mimicking Cat’s position, and stared off at the ocean. “Overmuch. My sister would tease me endlessly.”

Cat straightened, curious, _more_ than curious, because Astra rarely mentioned her sister. There had been a falling out, Cat had gathered, that led to her sister’s death during the explosion, and Astra’s escape that saw her here on Earth.

“I cannot give much in the way of comfort, I fear,” Astra remarked. “But I can provide silent, brooding company, which seems to be your chosen fare for the evening.”

Cat laughed, quick, sharp, foreign enough to her ears to startle her into a better mood. Astra was not often funny, but her close observations did give way to occasional wit.

“It is indeed,” Cat said, standing up, retreating toward the wet bar just inside her bedroom. She emerged a moment later with two glasses and a corkscrew.

“What is that?”

“A corkscrew.”

“What is its purpose?”

“You said you brought wine, didn’t you?” Cat asked, moving to sit on the patio furniture, tugging a knitted blanket from the back of the seat and curling her legs underneath her. She wrapped up, and pointed at the corkscrew. “Have at it.”

Astra stood, staring at the device, before simply shrugging, then ripping the top off the bottle of alcohol. There were no jagged edges, and no cork (at least not one that Cat could see).

“That works just as well,” Cat managed, watching as Astra poured herself a large glass, and gave Cat a drop.

“Catherine,” she said, handing the glass over.

“This is an insult.”

“ _That_ is a safety precaution. I have no idea how this will affect your system. If I were you I would place a drop on your skin, to make sure it will not eat away at your flesh.”

“You’re really selling this,” Cat quipped.

Astra leaned back and her posture relaxed once she hit the cushion of the patio furniture. It was strange to see her that way, wine in hand, as if she were a normal woman. She wore an atrocious black body suit, one that flattered her figure but most certainly was not designed for fashion. Atop the red cushion and wicker furniture, she could’ve passed as a striking, beautiful socialite, completely human despite the slight oddity of her speech.

“Tell me more about Carter, if you wish,” Astra offered, taking a large taste of her wine. “Perhaps it will make you feel better.”

“I don’t think so,” Cat said, looking down at the glass Astra had given her. She didn’t feel like chancing it, not this evening anyway, so she set the glass aside and reached for her scotch.

“Did I ever tell you I—I almost had a daughter,” Astra mumbled.

Cat’s head snapped up, because, as much as Astra gave her information about gallivanting with her unit across the cosmos, she rarely referenced her alien family.

“Almost?” Cat whispered.

“I… I was to adopt,” Astra said. “It did not…” She breathed heavily, took another gulp of wine, and gripped her knee tightly with her fingers. The last time Cat saw Astra frustrated, she’d put a hole through her office wall.

“It didn’t work out?” Cat pressed.

“It did not,” Astra said. “But she was beautiful. Intelligent, very much like Carter. The way he looks at you… Rodi once looked at me that way.”

“Rodi? Was that her name?”

“Rodisia,” Astra clarified. “She was not Kryptonian, but she was… everything.”

“It seems as if you loved her very much.”

“More than my life,” Astra said. “I did not mean to be so… so glum, Catherine. I only wanted to share, or… perhaps commiserate. Children are so bright, and our positions do not often allow us time to bask in that glow.”

“They sure don't,” Cat agreed, staring down at the remains of the ice cube in her glass. “Would you tell me about her? Rodi?”

Astra smiled easily and reached over, briefly squeezed Cat’s arm, and wiped away a tear of her own.

“I was on assignment to a planet called Streld,” Astra began, settling in for the night. She tucked her legs up underneath her body, mimicking Cat, and held her drink close to her chest. “The people there live in a vast desert, and have very tan skin, and hair the color of deep, endless space. Rodi was six years old, and she was perfect…”

Astra talked for hours, and Cat listened quietly, relishing the little comforts Astra provided on a cool Christmas night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hoping this at least gave a little bit of warmth to the day, even if I did leave it spectacularly unresolved.


End file.
